


You're My Favorite Kind of Night

by simplyprologue



Series: Dustland Fairytales [5]
Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Can work as a standalone, Drunk Sex, F/M, Hotel Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Valentine's Day, so if you haven't read the rest if Dustland, you don't have to have to read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are things she could do to drive him insane, but not yet, so instead she leans back and braces one hand behind her, showing off the swirls of transparent lace just barely covering the pale skin between her hips.</i> A suite at the Plaza, a bottle of Johnnie Walker blue label, and a somewhat impromptu Valentine's Day lap dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Favorite Kind of Night

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** You can all direct your blame to Emily C and the mostly empty bottle of merlot on my kitchen counter. You DO NOT have to have read the rest of Dustland Fairytales to understand what's going on in this fic, although it'll probably make it funnier. Takes place maybe two weeks after the end of _Brushfire Battles_. Thereabouts. 
> 
> Songs referenced in this fic are: _Earned It_ , by The Weeknd, _Crazy in Love_ , by Beyonce, _Heartbeats_ , by The Knife, and _Closer_ , by Nine Inch Nails. The title is taken from _Earned It_. The necklace Mac is wearing is [this one](http://www.tiffany.com/Shopping/Item.aspx?fromGrid=1&sku=22231839&mcat=148204&cid=287465&search_params=p+1-n+10000-c+287465-s+1-r+-t+-ni+1-x+-lr+-hr+-ri+-mi+-pp+1400+6&search=0&origin=browse&searchkeyword=) and [these](http://www.tiffany.com/Shopping/Item.aspx?fromGrid=1&sku=23032171&mcat=148206&cid=574694&search_params=p+1-n+10000-c+574694-s+5-r+-t+-ni+1-x+-lr+-hr+-ri+-mi+-pp+440+1&search=0&origin=browse&searchkeyword=) are her earrings. 
> 
> This _was_ supposed to be posted on Valentine's Day, so please excuse my tardiness. Let us all mark this fic as the end of any shame I may have had left.

**STUTTGART, 2008**

* * *

 

She’s wearing a borrowed dress. It’s black, glittery, and short. But longer on her than it would be on Molly, whose own black glittery dress definitely does not meet the fingertip test, unless one counts the five inches of black fringe at the hemline that lends the dress a cheap flapper aesthetic.

Mac is wearing one of Molly’s dresses. It’d be something if she interrogated it, the thirty-three year old woman wearing the twenty-two year old’s clothes. But Mac is in a short black dress, dancing on top of a bar, with a bottle of Jack Daniels in her fist. Alcohol pounds through her bloodstream with a feeling of elation.

The music in the club is louder than thought or emotion.

Molly is behind her, Jim in front. The bass from the speakers vibrates through her; the DJ keeps playing electro-pop remixes of American Top 40 songs, all at a volume that means the most she can make of what Jim and Molly keep trying to say to her is the smell of Jim’s deodorant and the sharp red of Molly’s lipstick. But she laughs, regardless.

At some point Frankie and Zack lift her bonelessly down from the bar, hauling her deep into the throng on the dance floor, Molly and Danny (with his small camera strapped into his hand, the white recording light on the whole evening) and Jim at her heels.

She drinks until her thighs burn from how much she’s dancing, until her head feels light and airy, until she can’t feel whoever’s hands are on her hips, until everything just makes her giggle, until she stops _thinking,_ about Will. The bottle of whiskey is passed back and forth. She misses her lips, on one pass, liquor dribbling down her chin and throat. Molly snorts, leans out of Noah’s arms, and swipes at the spill on her cleavage with her fingers before bringing them to her mouth.

They all keep laughing.

And Danny keeps filming.

 

* * *

  **NEW YORK CITY, 2013**

* * *

 

Valentine’s Day falls on a Thursday, and despite the looks they’ve gotten from the staff, they’ve both taken off Friday. It’s been a long winter, and a long seven years. Or at least that’s what Will told her after he booked the Edwardian Suite at the Plaza for their three-day weekend, and makes reservations after the Thursday broadcast for 9:40 at Jean-Georges.

By the time they make it to their suite, shortly before midnight, they’ve both consumed enough by the way of overpriced cocktails to qualify as more than just pleasantly drunk—that is to say, his hand is up the bottom of her dress the moment the doors close on them in the elevator, and she does absolutely nothing to hinder progress of his fingers from her thigh to the lace of her panties.

“They’re ones you haven’t seen before,” she says in a low voice, hooking her leg around his, the heel of her stiletto pressing into his calf.

He moves his hand to trace the whorls of lace at the top of her sheer black thigh highs. “And these?”

There was an excursion last weekend to, among other places, Agent Provocateur. For things in black lace and satin and silk, new panties and a garter belt and stockings to wear under her equally new dress.

“Those are new, too,” she murmurs, gripping the buckle on his belt before sliding her palm up his front, wrapping her fingers around his tie.

“What about—?”

His gaze flickers down towards her cleavage, the low-cut sweetheart bodice on her black satin dress. Biting her lip, she looks up at him. “Who said I’m wearing anything up there?”

There’s no need to, really. The dress has boning and built-in padding. It was essentially made for this purpose—to be tight-fitting and curve-hugging and worn for a little over two hours and then promptly discarded on a hotel room floor on the way to the plush king sized bed they’re about to desecrate over the next three days.

Will’s eyes have been returning to her cleavage again and again since his second glass of wine.

“You really didn’t notice?” she asks, her head light and airy and her thoughts muddled by the heat he’s teasing into flames between her legs. “You looked enough.”

A teasing grin tugs at the corners of her mouth, and he rewards her insolence by leaning over her and pressing their lips together, drawing her bottom one between his teeth. His tongue is exploring her mouth when the elevator door opens with a mellifluous _ding,_ and both are too distracted by the tactile conundrum of where to put their hands on the other to take in the luxurious suite they’re tumbling into.

Her purse drops from her elbow to the parquet floor of the suite’s small entryway.

And then her jacket.

“I could stand to look some more,” he answers finally, voice having dropped an octave in the meantime.

She laughs. “That _is_ why I bought new lingerie. I was hoping you’d look at it before leaving it in a crumpled heap on the floor.”

“I can work around lace.” His lips leave a trail of kisses from her mouth to her jaw and down her neck. “I can work around a lot of things.”

“The last time you said that you ripped a pair of panties that cost me two hundred dollars,” she says on a ragged exhale as he scrapes his teeth down the line of her throat. His tongue follows, soothing delicate skin that is suckled into his mouth by wet kisses and by the time he reaches her shoulder her knees have given way, his hands on her hips assuming the responsibility of keeping her upright.

“I bought you three new ones,” he says in a pause. “You were amenable to the arrangement, if I recall correctly.”

(One fish, two fish, red fish, black with silver accents fish… such fragile lace is always defeated by his very long and impatient fingers.)

Another grin, more mischievous this time, appears on Mac’s face.

“So maybe… no touching. Just watching.”

Blinking slowly, she slides a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, lightly scraping her nails over sensitive skin. Trying not to lose any sense of concentration she’s retained, her gaze moves around the room, considering first the couch and then the armed chair at the desk before deciding on one of the plush but un-armed chairs at the small dining table.

Sending her other hand under the jacket of his suit, she begins to pull his dress shirt from the waist of his trousers, and plans.

“What?” he asks a moment later, eyebrows puzzling together.

“I can look at how often you’ve watched things on the drive I gave you. There’s a certain video from Germany you’ve been enjoying.” Which she may only know about due to Neal’s recent lesson on metadata, but it is something she knows nevertheless. But that was only after her interest was piqued upon realizing exactly _which_ videos of his that Danny uploaded to an external hard drive like she had asked.

 _Representative of our time in the Middle East_ apparently—to Danny, and she suspects Molly and Noah as well—includes _drunken somewhat sexual exploits in foreign night clubs._ Which… Mac cannot wholly disagree with.

Stepping out of his grasp, she tries to hide how wobbly her legs are.

“I still see no reason against touching,” Will says, sounding entirely bereft.

She snorts, crosses to the table, and begins to drag one of the chairs into the middle of the room. “I know you’ve frequented those sorts of establishments, Billy.”

Balking at that, he reacts solely to her insinuation and not to the fact that she’s moved a chair to the center of the rug and is now in the entryway extracting her iPod from her purse, scrolling through it and looking for choicer music.

Mac bites her lip, and without saying a word, opens up a playlist that Molly had made ages ago as a joke.

“I will neither confirm nor deny—wait, how do you know the rules of _those sorts of establishments_ and more importantly,” he says as she walks back into the living room, places her hands on his shoulders, and steers him to _sit_ on the chair, “are you offering what I _think_ you’re offering?”

Forty-seven views in a month, Mac thinks, is pure excess.

And then places her iPod on the coffee table within arm’s reach of the chair before further surveying the suite. Execution, after all, is mostly in the planning. (Like her decision to forgo a bra and the decision to purchase the set of garters with clasps that will undoubtedly confuse him.) That, and a fair amount of nerve and a healthy stash of liquor—which is the story of how MacKenzie McHale won her second Peabody from the streets of Baghdad while taking heavy mortar fire.

She can pull off a lap dance for her fiancé.

“You could have just asked. For a demonstration.” Her voice is a raspy alto, barely a murmur, trying to project confidence that will take another two or three shots to achieve. Still, she smirks. “Although I will admit, I am not a cheap date. It takes _a lot_ of whiskey to get me to dance like that.”

Wine makes her maudlin and vodka makes her weep and tequila makes her aggressive, but _whiskey_ makes her, as Molly has said more than once, “oddly yet overtly sexual.”

She walks in front of where she has him seated, fingers curling into the tulip-cut hem of her dress, trying to decide if she should take it off now or later. In the meantime, she inches the satin higher and higher, until the bottom of the lace at the top of her stockings is exposed.

Will looks like he’d rather she come closer, but he says, “There’s Johnnie Walker Blue in the kitchen.”

“How do you know that?”

The answer has everything to do with the fact that they sent over their things earlier in the day and that _he_ was in charge of making sure everything they needed made it to the Plaza at Jenna’s behest.

 _His_ answer is a grin and a look that leave fingerprint marks all over her, before opening his mouth to respond verbally.

“I have priorities.” The sentiment is an afterthought, and her accompanying eye roll is wholly affectionate, as she brushes a hand over the back of his shoulders on her way to the kitchenette. “I’ll admit, I’ve never seen you dance like that. I wasn’t entirely certain if it was you or some stunt reporter, so I was watching for veracity—”

“Whiskey—” the bottle of which is sitting on the counter, with a red bow stuck to the label, “—will make me do a lot of things I don’t normally do.”

Breaking the paper seal, she screws off the cap and brings the mouth of the bottle to her lips.

Her heels clack on the wood floor, and when she walks back into Will’s line of sight, she throws her head back so he can watch her throat as she swallows—once, twice, three times—and then hands the bottle to him.

“I am looking forward to all of them,” he brings the bottle to his lips as well, the words of his reply rattling against the glass.

 _It really is a luxurious suite,_ is her next drunken thought as she finally gets a good look at the polished floors, brocade drapes, velveteen couches, gold leaf on the fireplace. But then Mac figures that she has the next three days to get a _good look_ and takes the whiskey from Will’s grasp and sets it down on the coffee table next to her iPod, which she finally turns back on and sets to play.

Low rhythmic bass, soft vocals, suggestive lyrics— _four hands and then away, both under influence..._

“So really, no touching?”

His hands twitch to the sides of his legs.

“I’ll stop,” she warns, leaning down with her breasts jutted towards him, planting her hands on his knees.

Will’s eyes go exactly where she knew they would, and trace the lines of her cleavage. Slowly, she arches her back and leans up, her palms dragging up over his thighs and chest to his shoulders, and in the momentum, she straddles him.

Her hips begin to swivel, the bottom of her dress working its way up her torso and she’s glad Will is momentarily transfixed by the slow reveal of her underwear because she’s going to need to ease herself into this more before she can make eye contact. There are things she could do to drive him insane, but _not yet,_ so instead she leans back and braces one hand behind her, showing off the swirls of transparent lace just barely covering the pale skin between her hips.

It surprises her when the first song ends—apparently she can get away with four minutes of just _that_ and keep him transfixed. Regardless, she brings her legs in closer, leaning forward and up, pushing her breasts closer to his face as she works on the zipper on her dress. One strap slides off her shoulder, and then the other, and Will makes a noise that could be characterized as a whine when she doesn’t _quite_ pull the bodice down to reveal her nipples.

The beat of the music picks up and she closes her eyes, and waits until it’s louder than her thoughts.

Sliding closer together, she circles her hips, faster in tiny increments. Faster, and then higher, almost grinding down into his lap. Her breasts move with her, and when she opens her eyes again, Will is watching the slow progression of flushed skin out of the neckline of her dress. Moaning breathlessly, she cups her chest in her hands, tracing her firm nipples through the fabric of her dress.

“Fuck, _MacKenzie._ ”

Pleased, arousal pinkens her cheeks.

And her fingers curl into her bodice, pulling it down to her waist and with her skirt around her hips, her dress becomes a swath of fabric at her middle. Teasing her bottom lip between her teeth, she reaches up to cup his face, rocking her hips forward.

Around her neck is the necklace he gave her (and put on her, his hands brushing her hair from her neck and continuing down her back, turning in at her waist before he exhaled fondly, dipped his head, and kissed the sensitive skin behind her ear) before they left work, sixteen inches of Tiffany diamonds set in platinum that meet at a circlet before dropping into her cleavage. As an excuse, he touched it three or four times during dinner when she caught him looking.

(His eyes never strayed to the matching earrings, of course.)

Her head feeling light and airy, she giggles. Will’s eyes darken noticeably, and she can feel him straining under her.

(— _you make it look like its magic, ‘cause I see nobody, nobody but you, you, you_ —)

Forgetting to worry about being graceful she swings herself off his lap, standing and bringing her legs back together so her dress can puddle on the floor. Her hips continue to move, slowly, and a bead of sweat rolls down her neck to pool between her breasts.

The third song on the playlist begins, a slow and throaty cover of _Crazy in Love_.

For a second she thinks about straddling him again, her hands roaming over his thighs and the length of his belt. Her palm passes briefly over where his erection is straining against his trousers and when he lets out a low groan, she instead turns and sits between his legs, pressing her ass up against his hardness.

Which earns her another moaned _“Fuck.”_

Giggling again, she takes his stationary hands and places them on her hips, moving his fingers over the straps on her garters as she moves, varying pressure and speed with the music. His breathing quickens, and she moves his hands to her breasts, lacing their fingers together to keep him from doing more than she’s inclined to allow at the moment.

When he starts to jerk his hips reflexively against her, murmuring her name, she lets up.

Which is when Will honest to god whimpers.

The noise he makes when she begins to touch herself is something else entirely, closer to a growl, and she toys with the idea of telling him in detail how wet she is under her fingers. But she straddles one of his thighs instead, tilting her hips forwards until beautiful pressure sparks at her core.

(— _I look and stare so deep in your eyes, I touch on you more and more every time_ —)

What she’s about to do is definitely in violation of _several_ New York laws, but Will doesn’t look like he’s about to point that out to her. Or touch her, it seems, a dazed expression locked into his features. She moves in a way that’s half instinct and half in tune with whatever Nine Inch Nails song has just come on, bringing her orgasm within reach. His eyes stay on her face, mesmerized, and when her thighs burn she knots one hand into his hair and wraps the other around the knot of his tie for leverage.

Exhaling shakily, his hands clench into the sides of the seat cushion.

 “Playing with a man’s tie is like playing with his,” he rasps, and after throwing her head back to gulp in air she looks him straight in the eye and reaches between them with the hand that was just in his hair, “—there it is.”

“Can you feel how wet I am?” Her fingers clumsily undo his belt and fly, and her hips pause and then grind down harder when she feels how hard he is already. “I’m so close.”

Her fingertips play over his stomach before her hand slips under the waistband of his boxers, folding around his erection and tugging. “I wanna watch you come,” he says lowly, his face a grimace of pleasure. “I think you should—I really think you should come. _Jesus,_ Mac.”

Tossing her hair back over her shoulders, she arches her back.

Will is throbbing under her fingers; she times every clever twist of her wrist with one of her thrusts, riding his thigh as her center turns to liquid and the unrestrained heat of arousal begins to melt her limbs, too. MacKenzie is long past being reserved, unashamed as she moves her body to _I wanna fuck you like an animal_ because they’re both beyond subtlety, her wetness staining his pants as she balances also ruining his shirt and tie against her own release.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” she moans a long breath later, squeezing his cock as climax ripples through her without warning. And then blinks open her eyes (that she hadn’t realized she had screwed shut), continuing to blink until the room settles, looking down at Will. “Hi.”

They both laugh, and letting go of him, she leans to retrieve the Johnnie Walker from the coffee table. The bottle of whiskey is passed back and forth. She misses her lips, on one pass, liquor dribbling down her chin and throat.

Will watches the slow trail as it makes its way down one breast.

“You should feel free to touch me now,” she breathes, pushing her chest forward, laughing at herself.

Licking his lips, he leans in, eyes flickering up to her face. “Don’t mind if I do.”

His hands on her waist keep her in place as his lips and tongue paint the heated tract of skin from her chin to her breasts. Pulling back, he observes his work, and with his thumb draws a trail of liquor to nipple, circling the bud before replacing his mouth again.

Moaning quietly, she lets her body mold to his grasp. And then moans loudly, when he gently rolls her nipple between his teeth, and she presses her legs back together around his thigh.

“How do these even work?” he asks a minute later, pressing a kiss to the side of breast. His hands slide down to the straps securing her stockings to her garters, running his fingers between the satin elastic and her skin.

Mac snorts, rising from his lap. “Weren’t you just bragging about your superior intellect today, Mr. Ninety-Four Percent Conviction Rate—?”

Undeterred, Will keeps going, following her up. “I mean, did you have to take a special class to learn how to get everything lined up, or—”

For about ten seconds she wonders if they’ll make it as far as the bed in the next room, and then he steers her to the couch with its rather wide cushions and discerns that the answer to that particular inquiry is a definite _not this round._ Sitting, she presses her fingers to the hooks at the back of her lingerie. “I mean, do you want it _all off_ , or do you just want my panties out of the way?”

The way his cock leaps against his belly suggests that the second scenario is the one she should go with.

Giggling (whiskey makes her to that too, she’s remembering now, at least when it didn’t make her think about how much she missed Will) she lies back, opening her legs for him to lie between. Bothering to only push his trousers and boxers down past his thighs he accepts her invitation, pressing his hardness against the crease of her pelvis. The way his fingers pluck and hands roam belie his patience, so she wastes no time in unclipping her garters from her stockings and shimmying her panties down her hips.

Bending one leg up, she pushes her lace briefs down the other.

Or begins to, instead gasping when Will cradles the underside of her knee in his hand and pushes it up and wide, pinning it to the couch. Reaching between them, she positions him at her entrance and shivers as he pushes into her, inch by slow inch—

(The song changes again.)

—when she comes, screaming, less than ten minutes later her thin black stockings are to her calves and her panties are still around her ankle. He follows her over, his tie in a wrinkled loop around her neck, tangled in the thirty-thousand dollar Tiffany’s necklace he gave her earlier in the day, and the heels of the Louboutin stilettos that never quite made it off her feet pressing into his hamstrings with a pleasurable sort of pain.

Vaguely astonished with themselves, they both start to laugh again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
